


Paint

by MQAnon



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MQAnon/pseuds/MQAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paint had become his substitute for words, over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint

Paint had become his substitute for words, over the years; what wandering thoughts he could not convey in breath he took with his brush to preserve on paper and canvas, colours warped and just a shade unreal as he struggled to confine feeling to a physical world. At first, Kieren preferred not to say it, replacing spoken words with presses of lips and stark lines of bold graphite against white paper, a silent attempt to somehow convey the sharply starlit _joy_ that Simon had given him, wrapped up beneath giant jumpers and that ridiculous coat.

Simon, on the other hand, never seemed to struggle in the slightest – his words always seemed certain and bold and unashamed, pillars of certainty where Kieren was soft-spoken in midnight whispers, half-hoping that Simon wouldn’t hear him. And Simon didn’t, the first few times, too far gone in careless sleep to feel the gentle breath on the back of his neck, the top of his head, the crook of his shoulder as Kieren practised his words. Words couldn’t be redone like paint, couldn’t be left to dry and whitewashed over for another attempt. He needed them to be right. He needed them to perfect.

And then, when he felt they were right, he waited for time to click into place, for it to be the right unreal moment to paint his words in air because he just _couldn’t_ mess this up, not ever.

Somehow, the time came on one of their lazy days, with Kieren pressed up close to Simon’s chest, a sketchbook resting on his bent knees in the quiet solitude and safety of the bungalow. Their conversation had faded, the silence it left filled with the rustle of Simon’s book and the quiet scratch of pencil lead, reminiscent of old libraries painted amber in dying autumn light. It was pleasant, peaceful. It was right.

"I love you." He felt Simon pause in his reading, growing slightly stiller behind his back. Kieren didn’t wait for a response; he returned to the soft motions of pencil on cheap notebook paper, trying to ignore how Simon put his book down and to one side, wrapped his arms around Kieren’s waist and gently rested his chin against his shoulder, practically curled up against him like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

"I love you too," he murmured back, and just like that the words were done, recaptured as diamond thoughts carved in reality.

The words weren’t paint, but in this instance, they were better.


End file.
